


One Question

by jenni3penny



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 17:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18743680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/pseuds/jenni3penny
Summary: Mild Jack/Gibbs but mostly canon compliant... Drinking buddies, per request.





	One Question

“Tell me one thing you remember?” she asks of him, her feet tucked up, knees bent and a glass tumbler pressed into her chest. “Anything.”

He lifts his head to entirely watch her despite the fact that he knows she's been studying the small decorated tree. He'd seen her fingertips brush one branch in his peripheral vision as he'd messed with the fire. Now she's wedged sidelong into the arm of his couch, backlit by twinkling Christmas lights and making his heart ache a little bit.

She's a picture in his memory already, that quickly. He's going to associate her with middle-of-the-night-Christmas lights and the way they make her glow.

He hadn't realized how much he hadn't wanted to be alone on Christmas until he'd seen her toe off her boots and watched her walk into his living room in thick woolen socks.

She's never before looked so much like she belongs in his house - and that's even _after_ the morning spent snuggling a baby in his living room.

There’s something so comfortably domestic in the way she’s curled up, glass clutched into her chest and knees drawn. Her face is wide open and warm, welcoming him into the first hours of a holiday that he rarely really enjoys anymore. “Then you can ask me anything. Anything you - ”

“About Kelly or Shannon?” he cuts in quickly, aware that it's likely not often she gives free passes for personal information. He presses against the coffee table to lever himself up from the fire, frowning as his knees throb at him grumpily.

“Either,” she shrugs, eyes widening up in excitement. He keeps to himself just as closely as she does and there's a new sweet novelty to sharing some of the more innocuous secrets. “No, wait - both?”

“And then I can ask anything?”

“Deal.” Her face goes brighter in amusement, happiness softening her features even as her lips press on a smile. “You seem frighteningly excited about that.”

Gibbs just shrugs at her, utterly honest and unashamed. “I got a lot of questions.”

“Do you?”

“That surprises you?” he assumes, just by the sharpness in her question, by how high one brow lifts.

She flushes and it's lovely on her, so pretty that it distracts him slightly. His interest charms her it seems, sends a flush over her cheeks and down her throat and, while he loves her in white, he'd like to see how far down that pinked up blush goes. The sweater is doing its job but it's also getting right in his damn way.

“Think I'm pleased by it more than anything,” Jack admits gently, the backs of her knuckles pressed against her cheek as she drops her glance from him, seemingly embarrassed.

She's damn adorable, honestly. And he can't help but enjoy putting her a little bit on the spot.

He stretches his back out entirely to give her some recovery time, picking up his glass as he sits and settling it against his right thigh. He relaxes farther into the couch, noting the fact that he can pick out the distinct scent of her, the perfume she uses. Or maybe it’s her lotion… Something silken anyhow, uniquely her, increasingly familiar. “One thing about Shannon?”

A grin takes up her lips and he can tell that she's relieved as he changes the subject, appreciative. “Mmm. First thing that comes to mind.”

“She hated marshmallows,” he tells her, feeling a bittersweetened smirk tug at the corner of his mouth, feeling his lungs sting inside to out. If he ignores the true trigger then he can pretend it's the fire making his chest tight and not the memories. “The taste, smell, the texture. All of it.”

“That's the first thing you thought of?” Her head tips as she studies him, her hair tripping off her shoulder and a sigh coming off her that turns into a small and breathy laugh. “That's very sweet. Pun _un_ intended.”

“We would camp as much as we could when I was home. Even if it was only for a couple days. And Kelly? She always wanted Smores.”

“And Shannon hated marshmallow,” she fills in, laughing warmly. And it's so easy to tell her, just in that moment. It's so much easier than it has been some other times, with some other people. She makes reminiscing feel like sinking into warmth, just by the interested heat of her smile.

“Shann could nurse a single Hershey bar all damn night, though,” he laughs, the sound of it leaving his lips like a breath of prayer. He can hear his own voice whisper the nickname back to him in his head and it has him dropping his glance to his hands.

He can't ever talk about Shannon without reflexively wanting to reach for her.

That's _never_ left him.

He's lived decades without her and loved other women and he still wants for her hand in his when he says her name aloud.

He studies his calloused fingers and palms before squeezing his hands shut and into sturdy fists. When he looks up she's smiling in his direction and it doesn't have nearly the amount of pity he expects. More admiration than sympathy, it seems. Her eyes are getting gorgeous as they gloss, brightened by the fire and the twinkle of lights, the color swirled and stirred by two large shots of whiskey.

“One question for each?” Gibbs asks softly, itching his knuckles against his jaw just to avoid how easily her simplest smile can disarm him.

“Sure,” she murmurs, stretching her legs out straighter so that she can cross them at the ankles. He doesn't avoid checking out her legs, nor does he try to hide it. The woman is sacked out on his couch in leggings and a sweater, he doesn't figure she's too awfully self conscious at this point. “Gimme your best shot, Gunny.”

Right. So she likely isn't going to see it coming... Which is usually how he likes to hit his targets. “You seeing anyone?”

A surprised little ‘huh’ noise comes up her throat, the whiskey glass pressing her bottom lip as she takes a drink to delay answering. He holds back the half victorious smile that wants to wander over his mouth and just stretches back, waiting on her.

“You mean exclusively?” she asks, face forcibly inscrutable as he nods silently in answer. Her eyes flick darker, widen out a little as her lips part but she doesn't answer at first. She simply takes a breath, licks her lips, and turns her head slightly toward the fire while keeping her eyes on his. “Why do you ask?”

Why is she delaying? She isn't _actually_ dating anyone? Surely he would have heard about it. The “kids” can't mind their own business these days and especially when it comes to Sloane’s personal life. She's on their Mystery List just near as high as he is.

“Because I have permission to ask. Stop deflecting, Sloane.”

She gives him a patented half glare and blinks before finishing off the last swill of whiskey that's been warming in her glass. “No, I'm not currently… I'm not seeing anyone. You _know_ that.”

“No, I only know that you hadn't mentioned anyone,” Gibbs shrugs, leaning forward to catch against the neck of the bottle. He hears her blow a sigh through her lips as he pours another finger into his own glass and then lifts the bottle, offering more.

Jack stretches her glass out, holds it near steady as he pours a few more swallows into it. “You think I wouldn't tell you?”

He snorts derision at her, “I think it's the thing we don't talk about.”

“And why is that, Gibbs?” There's definitely something of an accusation in her tone and he takes in the way she's looking at him with a newly slanted perspective. There's a hardness to the angles of her face that surprises him, tips him unsteady for a beat or two.

Never once has he really imagined that she’d be so frustrated with him to the point of boarding and banking _anger_. At least, hell, not about… about what? Dating? Sex? Both? A _relationship_?

He's too old to get tangled into that mess with her, to jeopardize their friendship, their closeness. No matter how much he'd like to lay her out in front of the fire. But the look on her face says she's been holding onto something in a seething silence and it’s about to spill out of her. Though… if his tone is to be believed then he's obviously been harboring his own frustration, too. Unrealized, maybe.

He can't broach that subject matter when there's quite so much combined frustration and alcohol between them.

Maybe the whiskey is exactly what they (don't) need between them. So he softens his breathing, his tone, the way he leans his head back against the couch cushions. “Aren't I supposed to be asking the questions?”

“Kelly,” she says and nods, staring into her glass and pulling back. The sound of her voice on his daughter's name does something so drastically conflicting to him. It turns heat all the way through him and twists his gut at once. “Tell me about your daughter.”

His daughter? His memories, his secrets…

And what about hers? His gut's telling him she's hiding something, using his history to deflect from her own. A history he's already gotten a few breadcrumb clues to…

He's probably only got one chance at this and he's just barely sober and awake enough to recognize that fact. If he's anywhere near the mark then he's got a 50/50 chance of being correct and there's something brooding in her eyes, something that says he could still lose with either fifty.

But… God hates a coward and so does he so “You gonna tell me about yours?”

Well, if he'd surprised her with the first question then the second was a goddamn land mine.

He has to give her ample credit, though. Because she is absolutely immutable as she looks at him, fiercely unyielding. He wishes she'd teach that stone-faced (supposed) passivity to some of their younger agents because he sees nothing in her eyes. Some of them desperately need the lesson.

But seeing _nothing_ in those beautifully expressive browns? That's how he knows he's hit his target, dead center.

“Is that your second question?”

So she’s much easier to read when he can hear her voice. She seems damn frustrated that he's already unravelled the edges of a secret, a new one, one he's never been let in on before.

“So it’s actually a girl?” He coughs out a surprised laugh and hard swallows the whiskey in his glass. “Well, that was blind damn luck.”

“A _girl_?” she snorts after saying it, avoiding his eyes, head shaking minutely back and forth. “Older.”

“How old were you?”

“Not old enough.” Her voice has gone dry and arch, sharper than before. He can only imagine that has to do with the touchy subject matter and the fact that she suddenly seems extremely self conscious. As though she's worried about what he'll think, what he'll say. “I gave her up for adoption when she was born.”

“You've seen her?”

“Photos. She looks a bit like me, I guess.” She shrugs and he almost feels guilty for this particular line of questioning. _Almost_. “It was before I joined the Army.”

He offers a smile, one that will hopefully calm her concern, bring her casual confidence back. She matches it with a gentler version of her own. “Surprises never end with you, Sloane.”

“You've pretty much heard the big stuff,” she shrugs off, like telling him her secrets is no big deal. Just that movement of her body, the trust it implies, it makes his chest go warm in appreciation. It's been awhile since he's felt so close to someone as quickly as he has with Jacqueline Sloane. Trust and loyalty, they're invaluable to him. He tends to it wherever he can find it. “Tell me about Kelly.”

“Tell me more about…?”

“Faith,” she supplies with finality. She meets his eyes briefly before shaking her head and turning her glance back down to her hands. He can see her emotionally re-calculate, he watches her as she exhales and looks back up with a half smirk. “Nope, ante up Gibbs. You owe me.”

First thing… the first thing he thinks of is Kelly jumping gracelessly into the deep end of a pool…

“Her fifth birthday party was an absolute disaster.”

She smiles instantly and wide and he watches the way it takes over her entire face, crinkles her nose and eyes as she laughs, “Tell me?”

He breathes in and leans forward, setting his glass aside so that he can rest his elbows to his knees. It's not even that great a story, really just more one bad happening after another that culminated in his having to take four little girls to the nearby public pool.

But he's already chuckling to himself as he starts to tell the story…

****

His living room has grown accustomed to being more a shared bedroom. It's proven by that fact that she's sleeping in the same place Ellie was the night before and mostly even in the same position. He's turned the lights off and let the fire die down low, the light left in the room warmly orange and flowing over her.

There's a third of the bottle left, their glasses both empty beside it on the floor. He leaves them there as he draws a throw blanket up the length of her, tugging it up over one inwardly curved shoulder. His hand flattens out against her back and he can just barely hear her sigh.

“Thank you.”

He can't help but smile at the sincerity in her voice, the whispered gentleness. Her eyes are deep and dark brown, inky and deep enough for him to sink into. He strokes back up and catches her hair off her face while nodding. “You're welcome.”

“How often do you do this?” she asks, voice soft as she lifts her head into the last of his touch.

He's got to pull back, pull away. He's got to put distance between them before he gives in to the urge to bury his fingers into a mess of dark blonde hair.

“Surprisingly, a lot,” he chuckles and re-tucks her blanket up against her shoulder, telling himself to walk away. “Need anything?”

She circumvents his escape by catching out against his fingers, showing appreciation as her hand ends up curled into his. “No, I'm content.”

“Thank you,” he said as he squeezes her fingers in his, forcing himself to release even when he may not want to. “For the truth.”

“That's what we're good at, right?” She murmurs, curling her hand back up under the blanket and into her sternum. “You and I?”

It's what fits best between them, really. The absolute truth. And there's something about their combined honesty that soothes him, encourages him. “G’night, Jacqueline.”

He can tell her _anything_ … It doesn't have to be _everything_.

“Good night.”


End file.
